Descendants
by IronManSaidPinata
Summary: Two years after Christine left him for Raoul, Erik discovers a boy child outside the Opera and takes him in as his own. Christine and Raoul have a daughter, one with great musical talent. When her turn to shine comes, and she finds herself as the leading soprano of the Opera Populaire, will the repercussions of history be too much to keep the new generation apart? (T just in case)
1. Damien

**A/N: Alright, I would like to apologize first of all to those of you who may have come from my Arrow fic. It is on hiatus. Not permanently, but unfortunately as you can tell I lost all motivation for that particular story. I will return to it though, so never fear!**

 **Now, as for this new story, I would like to say a couple things before it starts. 1.)** **I noticed while looking up some other fanfiction that someone else had named the girl Charlotte. Apparently it is popular, so please do not come in here and alert me to that.** **2.) This is movie-verse, perhaps with some hints of the musical. I debated for several days which setting I wanted this in and I decided on movie. Sadly this means no Nadir. That man doesn't receive hardly half the credit he deserves. He might get mentioned in Chapter 3 though...**

 **Anyway, on with the story!**

Chapter 1 - Damien

The shadows were long, void-like as they stretched forth from where they were cast by the whitewash light of the moon.

A single figure, cloaked in black, moved slowly down the cobblestone avenue. Their steps measured, the click of the heels of their shoes on the pavement was set to a beat unknown to all others. It was a slow tempo, and the depressing ambiance of the slightly fogged empty street spoke without words of loneliness. If it weren't for the evening patrol of the night constable, anyone else might have awoken and been filled with dread at the eerie sound.

However, the figure moving at a leisurely pace down the street was not the night constable. Had any of the people living in the flats that lined the road had the presence of mind at the early hour of 2:45 in the morning to look at the clock, they would have realized that. The night constable would not return to their part of his beat for another thirty minutes.

Rather, the person who had seemed to make every effort to remain unnoticed aside from remove his shoes was a visitor the people didn't know quite as well but should have expected in any case. The turned up collar of the cloak and the hat brim pulled low to obscure any possible view of the person's face probably gave away more than intended.

Erik was out for an evening stroll. Since the fire, Antoinette had visited him more frequently and that evening had informed him of the nice turn toward chilly that the weather had taken. In fact, she had all but outright suggested that he take a walk. He had rolled his eyes while she wasn't looking and grumbled and growled and complained about it up until he had stepped out of the back alley entrance to the Opera Populaire and into the crisp night air.

By now, judging by his pocket watch, he had been out alone with his thoughts for three hours. Believing himself to be sufficiently aired out for the time being, he thought it about time to return to his home. There were things to be done, new scores of music to write, and threats to be made. Rarely did he sleep as it was, though Antoinette all but force fed him three meals a day. If not for anything else, he ate to save himself the annoyance of having to face her wrath. In this world or another.

Admittedly, he wasn't certain why Madame Giry had stuck with him all the years she had. It wasn't until recently that he had begun to see just what an ally he had in her. Their friendship from times' past when they had been children was unrepairable. Especially since he had hardly noticed all she had done with her life since that time; a great rift had formed between them. She had gone on to become the ballet mistress of the opera house above and have a daughter, while Erik himself had simply become the Phantom, the Opera Ghost, that haunted the world above day in and day out.

It had taken many of her visits for them to reconcile to one another, his temper having only added to the ocean. Her unyieldingly staunch attitude toward him and his outbursts had been his saving grace time and again after that. She knew he would never hurt her, as did he. If there was one person Erik could claim loyalty to that had been and could very well be reciprocated, it would be Antoinette Giry. He owed her his life, though she would never mention it, and she remained with him for reasons beyond his understanding.

Of course, he had yet to officially meet the "little Giry" as he called her daughter since Antoinette refused to allow the young ballet rat downstairs. And, since the departure of her best friend, her child's curiosity had been seriously dampened. She did remain a spreader and inventor of stories and wild tales involving the Phantom which he had had the chance to hear on one occasion or another. It generally put him under the impression that she knew more of her mother's "relationship" (if one could call it that) with him than she let on.

In any case, his patience with the elder Giry, though vast as the ocean, had its limits. While he would never even consider harming her or her daughter in any way, there were occasions when he did find himself annoyed at Antoinette. When it got to the point where he no longer wished to be subject to her motherly discipline, he found that things worked best when he either listened to her or completely ignored her. Though the latter was often a last resort as it proved to have adverse effects over time.

This situation was one in which he applied the former. He allowed himself to listen to the harsh-sounding but well meant words of the single person on the Earth that he trusted more than himself. Thus resulting in his presence in the outdoors of Paris that evening.

Fortunately, the night had been clear enough and he had had enough to get done back in his abode that this one little semi-pleasure was not tainted by Christine.

Cursing himself for thinking it when he had been having such a fine time, he instantly felt his mood darken and clouds storm over head. His footsteps quickened and became heavier, echoing his mournful fury. He turned his sea green eyes up for the briefest of seconds to take a glance at the world around him. The Opera Populaire, his one and only home, was just in sight. It seemed he couldn't reach it fast enough.

His strides lengthened until he was closer to stomping than walking. From then, it didn't take long for Erik to find himself in the looming shadow of the opera house. He made his way around to the Rue Scribbe entrance at the back and headed for the door.

With his hand wrapped around the handle, he might've missed the cry if he'd been moving any faster. In that moment, he gave pause. He unleashed the handle from his oppressive grip and flickered his keen eyes around the surrounding alley.

There it was again.

Just a faint sob. A whimper really.

But he knew that sound. He'd issued it a thousand times himself. It gave voice the last dregs of the hurt felt by someone abused and in pain. The last slivers that could be felt before one reached rock bottom and could feel no more. His hand dropped to his side completely and he shifted slightly to look about.

He scanned the rubbish and supplies filled alley until he spotted a pile of rags and soot sitting in a corner wedged between a cart and some crates of supplies for props. Narrowing his eyes warily, he swung himself around with a graceful swish of his cloak, exposing his sword hanging at his side. The quiet whimper turned to a wordless outcry of terror accompanied by the sound of appendages scrabbling against surfaces for purchase.

He made no move toward the stranger's location until the dark material around him had smoothed to stillness and there was once again silence in the alley.

For a long series of moments, he merely stared at the greyish form of a small person huddled in the corner. He could feel a pair of terrified eyes fixed on him from the spot on the ground his steely eyes observed.

From experience, he knew that any sudden movement would result in a fight or flight response from the person adjacent to him. Cautiously, he stepped forward, setting one foot precisely in front of the other with the grace of a giant cat until he stood above the cowering figure below. Crouching beside the small being, he could see everything in the moonlight as an obscuring cloud disappeared.

He could see the quick rise and fall of the the too thin chest.

He could see the bruised skin, darker beneath the thin layer of dirt.

He could see the large bloody horror a weapon of some kind had unleashed upon a face.

He could see it was a child.

The sight of the terrified little boy before him pierced him through like a lance. He was altogether much too thin, and besides that, the were the bruises. Already an outstanding basis for accusations of child abuse.

And then there were his bloody wounds.

Oh god, they were bloody. There was no feasible way to even hope that he would be left relatively unscathed. The scars inflicted upon this child would be sure to rival his own once they indeed formed into scars. Half his face-save for a fortunate area around his eye-looked like minced meat.

He was not one given to pity. Ever. But, on this occasion, he couldn't help but feel a massive welling of pity for the boy. He had long thought that pity, and its sister emotion compassion, to be something he was beyond being able to show. However, the feeling of anger mixed with an unfounded despondency would not dissipate. Rather, with each look from the petrified boy beside him, it only intensified. A part of him wished to mourn the fate of this boy he had only just come across, and another, darker, part wanted to burn those who had inflicted this pain on something meant to be beautiful.

But then, when he combined the two feelings into one, he felt something deeper. He wasn't sure what, but something. He wanted, no needed, to do something. He would not allow this boy to suffer the same cruel fate he had. But how? How would he do it? It was an infernal question.

 _You could take him with you. Bring him up as yours,_ a voice in the more thoughtful recesses of his mind conjured. Initially he waved it off. But then it began to make more sense. Antoinette was too old to take on another child herself. And her daughter, the only other person Erik was willing to bestow his trust upon, was much too young to be imposed upon by a child she didn't want.

It made sense to him.

But now he had to actually help the child.

"Can you stand, little one?" he inquired, his smooth voice somewhat less gentle and soft than he had intended. The boy scrambled backwards away from him-pressing himself into the wall at his back-and spewed nonsense, as though he hadn't been taught to speak. Erik frowned, less out of annoyance and more from disappointment.

Under normal circumstances, he would have burned the person scorning him with his rage. However, it seemed that this child's fear was less of Erik himself, and more of adults in general. He had to find away past the shell of fear that the child was encased in.

Slowly, very slowly, he extended his hand out to the child. The boy recoiled slightly, but then seemed to relax slightly as Erik began to hum. It was a haunting melody. One he himself had heard as a boy in the Gypsy camp a great many years ago. The old Crones and fortune tellers would sing it to enrapture the minds of young children before they showed them their tricks. He wasn't sure why this particular song had remained with him all that time, but it had. As the lyrics came back to him, he began to sing them quietly in his deep, gentle voice.

" _Come Little Children, I'll Take Thee Away, Into A Land Of Enchantment,"_ he began, " _Come Little Children, The Time's Come To Play, Here In My Garden Of Magic_." As he sang the Gypsy lullaby, it seemed to soothe the boy. His breathing became slower and deeper and the fright in his eyes seemed to calm. Pleased with the results, Erik continued.

" _Rest Now My Children, For Soon We'll Away, into The Calm And The Quiet,"_ he sang as he watched the two silvery-blue orbs glaze over and disappear behind a pair of eyelids-both fortunately somehow undamaged. Carefully, he inched closer, never stopping the song, and reached out to the boy. The rise and fall of the his chest was deep and steady now; the child was asleep.

Erik hummed for a moment, trying to remember the final verses of the song.

" _Come Little Children, I'll Take Thee Away, Into A Land Of Enchantment."_

He lifted the boy into his arms.

" _Come Little Children, The Time's Come To Play, Here In My Garden Of Shadow."_

Straightening up and continuing to hum the dark melody, he held the small frail body of the child close, and with as much tenderness as he could muster. He opened the door and moved carefully into the darkness of the entrance. Much to his surprise, the tiny body in his arms snuggled even closer to him, causing him to pause and look down at where the boy would be in the darkness.

He wasn't being shunned.

He wasn't being pushed away.

Rather, it was quite the opposite.

The child, though having needed help to warm up to him, had indeed warmed up to him and was not showing great fear.

He was pulled out of his reverie when he felt something wet and sticky dampening his shirt where the boy's head rested. Worry suddenly creased his brow and he moved quickly and fluidly down into the lair, all the while his mind on another task entirely. The boy's name. if he didn't have one, and it was likely that he did not, then Erik would have to name him.

 _Damien_ , he thought, _little Damien._

 **Remember, as another wise writer in the BH6 fandom often says: "** ** _Coffee keeps me awake to write, but good reviews keep me motivated to write!"_** **:D see ya'll next week!**


	2. My Son

Chapter 2 - My Son

Two Years Later...

Erik tapped his foot against the pavement impatiently as he took his pocketwatch out of his waistcoat for the fourth time in ten minutes.

4:45.

 _Damien should be out by now_ , he thought.

He sighed in annoyance at his son's tardiness. Not necessarily his son, but rather Monsieur Devereaux, his fencing instructor. If anything had happened to his boy, even the fencing master in charge of teaching him how to use a blade for four and a half hours on Tuesdays and Thursdays wouldn't survive unscathed.

Suddenly, much to Erik's immense relief, the chime attached to the door beneath the sign reading M. Eugene Devereaux: Fencing and Swordplay Instruction rang. He turned in time to see a small boy wearing a cloak and paper white mask pushed the door open and hopped down the steps. He looked around for a moment, seeming to briefly shrink in on himself timidly until he caught sight of his father.

 _Father._

Though enough time had passed for Erik to become accustomed to the word being synonymous with himself, he still marveled at the fact that it was. Though more than often he had thought about having a family, he had resigned himself to the knowledge that those dreams would never come to pass. They had shattered long ago like all the rest. Then Damien came along all on his own and changed that, causing a spark of hope to lighten his otherwise dark world. He returned to the present just in time to see his son running to him.

Immediately, the smile that brightened the child's face brought one to Erik's own lips. The small boy hugged his leg, burying his face in the cloak and trousers. "Father, I am so glad to see you!" he exclaimed in his high-pitched child's voice.

Erik knelt down beside him and opened his arms to hug the little boy. "I'm glad to see you as well, my boy," he said breathlessly as Damien flung his arms around his neck and hung on tight. "I trust your lesson went well?"

Damien nodded and replied, "Mmhm!" Erik nodded, pleased. Still smiling, something that had become less rare in present times, Erik took his son's small hand in his own and the little boy flipped his own dark brown hood over his head to cover the small mask on the left side of his face. Erik knew without seeing his face that Damien was grinning from ear to ear as he clung tightly to his hand.

He quickly pulled out his pocket watch for a glance at the time.

4:48.

Tea hour would be ending soon, and people would be returning to the streets. Right now, there were very few people out who had skipped tea time, which was part of the plan. Whenever Damien had to go somewhere, it was scheduled that he leave at noon, while everyone was eating lunch, and not return home until between 4 and 5 o'clock in the afternoon.

In this case, Damien's lessons lasted from noon until 4:30. Originally, his lessons with Monsieur Devereaux had lasted only a half an hour and they would take the routes through the sewers back home. However, one day when Damien had to stay an extra hour because of events in the Opera Populaire that Erik had to take care of, Devereaux had asked him to stay and watch his son's work when he returned.

Apparently, Damien hadn't shown a great deal of progress until he had stayed the extra hour and had displayed incredible improvement when allowed to work longer with Monsieur Devereaux. At just five years old, he had been deemed a prodigy by a sword fighting master. It had taken Erik by surprise that the then still quiet and small boy had such a prowess with a blade.

Why, you ask, was a five year old taking sword fighting lessons in the first place? Erik's paranoia for his safety was one reason, he knew. Another was his wish to prevent a fate akin to his own for his son. He would be able to protect himself at an age when Erik was helpless.

That aside, it was then that Erik began to realize that he and the boy had more in common than he had found himself believing more and more recently then. Not long afterwards, little Damien had begun to express an interest in the haunting music his adoptive father would sing and play for him on the organ.

That in itself was nearly six months ago. Damien was just a few days away from being six already. Erik, wishing to give his son a gift he would cherish, had decided to introduce him to something he was sure to love.

Along with the aforementioned interest in music had gradually come an interest in the opera house above their lair. He had made it clearer as time went on and he opened up that he would greatly enjoy seeing an opera. He had hinted at the notion every once in a while; just enough to snag Erik's attention.

It didn't take him long to realize he had a prodigy on his hands, but it wasn't until he started taking the extra-long fencing lessons that he had truly begun to flourish. His talent with a blade nearly as long as he was tall and the praise he had received from his father and teacher made him somewhat bolder.

And so, he had begun teaching him how to play the large organ in their home beneath the Opera House cellars. His voice still remained quiet most of the time, so Erik couldn't yet help him cultivate his voice; but he held an avid interest in the violin and all but begged his father to teach him how to play it. At first Erik wasn't sure how musically inclined the boy actually was until he began to play.

Of course, practice was always needed, but Damien learned quickly and took much of the offered guidance to heart. He often watched with wide, shining eyes as Erik played both instruments he was fascinated with. More than once he had caught the boy either swaying back and forth to the song or mimicking his movements.

Here again Erik could see that he and Damien were very alike. They shared a common enrapturement with song, the pure awe that merely pressing a key or plucking a string could make a sound that could evoke so many emotions.

Surprisingly, Erik had been able to say for the first time that he was truly happy.

It amazed him to a greater degree than anything else about the boy. He was really very happy with Damien. He had brought an emotion to his heart that he thought he had thought he was incapable of for two years. He had brought him love.

His smile turning affectionate as he glanced down at the essentially miniature adaption of himself trying to keep pace at his side.

My son.

Looking up, he could see the Opera Populaire ahead of them and they reached it just as the huge clock tower bell chimed to the count of five, signalling the new hour. He ushered his son into the shadow of the Rue Scribbe and through the door of the opera house. They slipped into the shadows just as a group of stagehands came around the corner and went out the door.

"Come now Damien, before they come back," he whispered lifting the boy into his arms and carrying him the rest of the way down to the lair.

When they reached the canal where the boat was tied up, Erik set Damien down and let him scramble into the pit of the gondola. His hood pushed back, he sat perched on the edge of the single seat at the front as Erik rowed out the short distance of the canal to the inner lair.

As soon as the boat knocked against the shore, Damien was out of the boat and running up to the organ. Erik couldn't help but smile at his son's excitement and he couldn't wait to tell him his surprise.

He heard the sound of his son playing simple scales on the first set of keys on the organ. He strolled up to the organ, dropping his coat over a bench and rested a hand on the boy's shoulder. Damien, having come to know his father's touch, didn't flinch. He turned his head up for a second to grin at Erik before turning it back to the keys of the organ.

"Damien, I have a surprise for you," he said softly, folding his hands behind his back and hoping that his son would be as excited as he was. Instantly the sound of Damien's playing ceased and he turned around on the stool to look at his father.

He blinked twice and waited. Erik grinned back at him.

"We're going to an opera tonight," he informed him.

Damien's reaction was immediate.

"An opera Father? We're going upstairs?" he could hear the raw excitement in his voice as well as the disguised trepidation. Erik nodded, crouching down to the boy's level. The bright blue eyes, somehow so like his own, gleamed in the soft light of the myriads of candles that illuminated their home.

"Yes my son. You're old enough now to be able to sit through it. And you love music as much as I do and more," he held Damien's unscarred cheek in his hand and searched his eyes, rooting past the excitement and finding the inner fear that the boy had become quite good at hiding. "I know you're afraid. You mustn't hide that from me. I promise I would never do anything that could put either us in danger."

Damien's eyes seemed to search Erik's in return. "You promise?"

"I promise."

Damien lunged forward and wrapped his thin arms around his father's neck. The instinct to return the embrace, something that had taken him time, now came naturally and Erik found himself holding to his little boy just as much.

 _My son. I'll never let anyone hurt you again._

 **A/N: I would like to thank all of you who have read, reviewed, faved, and followed this story (currently there are three of you, you know who you are)! I know it seemed all day like I wasn't going to continue... Hah! I have the first two and a half chapters of the story written!**

 **I hope you liked this week's chapter, so I will now bid you goodnight and I will see you all next Monday.**

 **IMSP**

 **EDIT: Hi-yo people, just edited a few parts of this, and I intend to return shortly to make more. Hope this makes a bit more sense.**


	3. Charlotte

Chapter 3 - Charlotte

"Milady."

Christine looked up from reading her book to see the straight-backed butler Eduard standing in the door of the sitting room. The older man bowed, inclining his head enough for Christine to see the combed down greying hair that remained on his head. She turned herself to face him so he could see he had her attention.

"Your husband the Vicomte has returned from his business," he informed her. Christine had barely processed the words before there was an excited squeal behind her.

"Papa!" the voice cried. She smiled and turned her head to the ground where her three year old daughter was getting to her feet. The girl scrambled up and bolted for the door, almost knocking Eduard down in her attempt to get out of the room and the house to see her father. Fortunately, Eduard had been a part of the household since Raoul had been a little boy and was used to the antics of children. He sidestepped the toddler just in time. A rare smile passed over his face as Christine stood and followed.

By the time she reached the stairs at the end of the upstairs hall, her daughter had already descended them and was at the door, a maid trying to wrangle her into her shoes. Keeping up the premise of the graceful Vicomtess, she moved down the stairs and to the door just in time to open it for her child.

The little girl, her hair flying back in the breeze, charged toward a pair of horses who were trotting up the gravel path which led to the house. Christine couldn't help her laughter as her daughter shouted "Papa!" and ran with her arms outstretched towards the men.

The one in the lead, Raoul, immediately pulled his chestnut horse to a stop and jumped from the saddle. "Charlotte!" he called, closing the distance between them by reaching down and swinging her up into the air. He spun her around in the air for a moment before settling her in his arms. A stable boy who was on the scene took the horse's reins and led it off to the stables so Raoul wouldn't have to worry about it. Raoul nodded his thanks before turning to Christine who just reached him and kissed him. Raoul returned her display of affection happily for a few moments before Charlotte's giggles reached their ears.

"Me too Papa! Kiss me too!" she cried, twisting her tiny mouth into a pout. Raoul laughed and consented, giving the younger of the females in his life a kiss as well. Christine couldn't contain a chuckle at her child's antics and she continued smiling as the three of them moved toward the lawn patio.

Before they reached their destination, however, Charlotte squirmed out of her father's arms and dropped to the manicured grass below, sullying the edge of her dress. Laughing, she darted behind Raoul and hid behind the small bustle of her mother's skirt. Immediately, Raoul chased after her and she shrieked in excitement, racing out into the open across the lawn. Christine laughed as her husband sprinted after their daughter.

Lowering her head, she moved over to a lawn chair one of the servants had set up for outdoor tea. Once she was sitting, she smoothed her skirts and looked out at the happy scene before her. She could hear Charlotte's laugh, tinkling bells on the crisp afternoon air.

Things had changed so much in the last five years.

She sighed at the thoughts of the past that suddenly captured her mind. No matter how she attempted to will them away, they wouldn't depart from her.

No matter what she did to rid her mind of the haunting visage of the man she once called "Angel."

Just thinking about it, about him, tore the smile from her lips and caused a pit of some black feeling to pool in her stomach.

Her Angel of Music.

The Phantom of the Opera Populaire.

Nothing more than a man, when you got down to it.

After the fact, she had often wondered how she could have been so foolish. She had been a naive child then. One willing to trust in anything, giving over her mind and heart without a second's consideration. What a stupid girl she had been.

She praised the nines that Raoul had found her again. The boy she loved. The _man_ she loved. Loved more than anything. More than singing. More than life itself.

 _But you loved him too_ , a traitorous part of her brain whispered. She shook her head. _That wasn't the same! I was made to believe that I loved him!_

Her warring thoughts were jarred and shattered when something warm ran into her and wrapped its arms around her.

"Mama! Papa brought back macaroons from the city! Can we have them with the tea? Please…?" Charlotte begged her. Christine couldn't help but revive her smile as she stared down at the light rosy cheeks and slightly crooked teeth of her daughter.

"I'm not sure, can we?" she replied, doing her best to put on her confused-sarcastic face. Charlotte giggled and tried to roll her eyes, without succeeding.

" _May_ we Mama?" she reiterated. Christine laughed and gave her daughter a nod.

"Yes _mon cheri_ , we may have macaroons with our tea."

Charlotte tore herself away and skipped off to Raoul, who was approaching them at a leisurely pace. She hugged his leg and informed him in her high-pitched voice that they would be having the cookies. Christine heard him say "Oh really?" and then scoop her up again, swinging her around. Christine laughed, the sound reminiscent of her daughter's own enchanting tone.

Yes, things had changed a great deal in the last five years; and yes, she would greatly enjoy returning to the stage to sing.

But she wouldn't trade this time with those she loved most dearly for the universe.

Not for any amount of roses.

Not for any number of singing lessons from a false friend.

And most definitely not for his possessive love.

"Christine!" she heard her name being called and she once again snapped back to reality to see Raoul holding their daughter in one of his arms, smiling his crooked smile at her. She grinned affectionately at them both before gliding toward them. Raoul slung his free arm around her shoulders and she wrapped her arm around his back.

She couldn't possibly be more content than in that moment.

She had her family.

 _Raoul, my love._ Charlotte, my daughter.

 **A/N: Alright, here we are with the next chapter. This one is a change from the others. Not only is it shorter, but it is also touching on our other main character Charlotte. I'm sorry that this is shorter than the last two, but I was trying not to be biased against Raoul and Christine. Frankly, she's great, but seriously...I'm not much of a Raoul fan. Anyway, I'm about three quarters through writing the next chapter, so I might post that later this week as I am considering changing the update day to Wednesday.**

 **Also, Read and Review guys! This gets a lot of views, but only has one review? I wanna know what you guys think of this, though of course constructive criticism is always nice.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **IMSP**


	4. Regardez, Je Vous Ose

**A/N: Aaaaaaaaand welcome to Chapter Four of Descendants! I hope you guys like this one. It took me forever to get this one written up and set to go. I spent, oh four, maybe five hours working on this last night. (I was up until around 3:45 in the morning) and after that I had to go back with sane eyes and fix the crap first draft.**

 **Hope you like it!**

 **IMSP**

Chapter 4 - Regardez, Je Vous Ose

( _Translation: Look Up, I Dare You)_

 _Thirteen Years Later…_

Above the brightly lit stage of the Opera Populaire, shadows abounded.

Darkness pervaded every single nook and cranny not illuminated by light from kerosene lamps or the sun that seeped through the cracks of the wooden beams and pulleys of the upper levels of the backstage. The occasional stagehand meandered through the darkness, sometimes charging precariously across the walkways to check a knot that had yet to be accounted for.

Other than that, the inky shape that stalked the rafters was alone.

This was unusual as said figure's father usually accompanied it on the customary hauntings of the Opera House.

 _Their_ Opera House _._

A gloved hand reached out of the cloak and gripped a railing on one of the many catwalks to vault down with all the grace of a cat. The figure had done this a thousand times before, making him privy to the knowledge of where he should jump in order to not miss his destination. Turning in the air, he leaned forward and repositioned himself to land on his forearms.

Expelling the momentum, he rolled forward and locked his boots silently on the rafter. Dust kicked up around him and the planks rocked for a moment. Still, his success was limited as the hood of the cloak around him fell back and revealed his face.

It had matured over the years, fit for a young man his age.

Fit for an eighteen year old boy.

Damien readjusted his hood so it concealed most of his face from view and then placed a hand on the side of his face hidden beneath the silky paper mask attached. Finding it still in place, he inched forward toward the railing.

Now to learn what all the fuss was about.

The last two days, there had been a great ruckus and the Opera had been in chaos. Word had been going around that some important guests were to arrive at any moment. Rumor dictated that a once-famous opera singer was returning to make a fresh start. Another stated that a wealthy family, one in power, would be coming for a visit. The most common was that a new patron had been found.

Hence Damien's alternate reason for being there in the first place. If any of the rumors were true in any way shape or form, he felt obligated to make an appearance. After all, the threats of the Opera Ghost were empty ones if they had no backing. He smirked.

However, as soon as he thought it, a whirlwind of activity swirled out onto the stage below. The ballet rats all skittered out, closely followed by the chorus and the orchestra. Each group filed into their respective places and warmed up in their consecutive manners.

In all the action, the stagehands were not to be idle. Damien snapped his head around when he heard them clamoring up the many ladders. He had to get out of there. Glancing around semi-frantically, he tried to figure a way out of his situation. Stagehands on his left and right, and the above walkway was too high to jump to.

A rope hung down between them. Looking across, there was an adjacent beam concealed in the shadows. If he could swing over to it, then he could in turn climb higher to the catacomb-like catwalks above near the painted dome ceiling.

Not wasting another second, he lunged for the rope, wrapped it around his wrist, and then leapt from the catwalk, dissolving into the shadows. Planting his feet down on the rafter and releasing the rope. He pulled the hood lower as it swung back and the stagehands converged on the very spot he had been not two seconds before. None of them stopped to see why it was swinging or where it had swung from.

This gave Damien his chance. He darted to the opposite end of the rafter and ascended the ladder propped against the wall. Occasionally he had to pause to keep out of eyesight. The stagehands saw more than most gave them credit for. Aside from the ballerinas, they were a veritable breeding ground for stories of the Phantoms of the Opera. Plural.

Reaching the topmost walkway, he crouched low and scanned his surroundings. Satisfied that he would not be found here on the eighth level of catwalks where there were no levers or pulleys for a single significant reason.

It was rumoured that there was a _third_ ghost in the Opera Populaire. The ghost of Josef Buquet. Of course, Damien for one knew that it was pure rumour. But it was on the eighth floor that his father had hung the deceased stagehand after he had gotten too curious.

Looking over the edge, he could see another small group sauntering out onto the stage. Of the seven people that it was made up of, he recognized four of them. Monsieur Andre and Monsieur Firmin, the managers; Monsieur Sebastien Olivier, the orchestra conductor; and Madame Clarice Dupont, the lead soprano since the reopening of the Opera House.

However, he didn't recognize the other three. In fact, he wasn't sure he had ever seen them before. Their little trio seemed to be made up of an aristocratic older couple, obviously in love judging by the way their arms were linked and they held hands, and a younger woman. At first, Damien wasn't sure if she was just a handmaiden to the older woman, but then noticed the clothes she wore. The green and brown fabric sparkled faintly in the light, obviously quite expensive. A daughter was more like it. Faintly, he could hear Monsieur Andre bring the split-second rehearsal to a halt.

Everyone stopped what they were doing to listen to what he had to say. Seeing that their work was done for the time being, the stagehands retreated to the backstage area below; most likely to smoke and drink. Using this opportunity to get closer, Damien snuck back down to the lower rafters once again just in time for the manager's announcement.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we would like to introduce to you our new patrons," Andre began, his mouth open to give the news. Firmin beat him to it.

"-The Vicomte and Vicomtesse De Chagny and their daughter," he delivered while Andre looked at him scornfully. Everyone turned and clapped in the direction of the three guests.

 _So far two of the rumours are true_ , Damien thought as he shifted his position to redistribute his weight from his heels to the balls of his feet as he crouched. He slipped his arms through the posts holding up the banister and crossed them before resting his chin on them.

Suddenly, a figure charged gracefully out onto the stage. It was the resident Halley mistress, Madame Giry. Or rather, Madame Meg as he knew her. "Christine?" She cried, hesitating only slightly as the woman turned and faced her. The young ballet mistress wrapped her in a tight hug, surprising Damien. His brow rose in response.

Meg, though often high spirited, had never been this openly affectionate as far as he could recall. Yes she had hugged him many times, desperately so after he had a close brush with injury or death, but never quite so jovially. Still, he didn't dare jerk his head up in surprise and give himself away. He was close enough to hear the conversation.

"Oh, Christine it's so good to see you."

"It's been far too long, Meg."

"How have you been? I'm so sorry I couldn't have been in contact with you more, but I've been so busy here and with mother."

"Oh, it's fine Meg. I've been very well. I would hope that the same is true of you and your mother as well."

Damien tuned out most of the rest, filing away the mindless chit chat for later reference. But then he heard someone gasp and he looked down, fearing he had been caught. To his immense relief, the gasp came from Meg and was directed more at the girl who had accompanied the Vicomte and Vicomtesse. "Oh my goodness gracious! Is that dear little Charlotte?"

He swiveled his head to look at the girl, her hair a tone caught between that of her parents. It was a wavy dark chestnut color, curling more at the ends and perfectly straight and smooth at the top. He could see her smile and hear her giggle as she moved over to Meg and hugged her.

"You've grown since I saw you last...perhaps maybe, oh I'm not sure, two feet!" Meg said jokingly, gesturing the height change. The girl laughed outright at this before replying.

"I should think so! After all, you've not visited since I was six," she said, her voice still holding traces of laughter.

Damien's jaw clenched in distaste, his usual reaction to newcomers in the opera, especially the female kind. Even if they were not in the chorus or ballet, they were still the more curious of the genders. And being of the aristocracy only seemed to make them think they were entitled to explore what wasn't theirs.

 _Also more easily frightened off_ , he pondered with a smirk. Instantly, at least fifty possibilities skimmed through his mind as to what "accidents" could befall any of the three.

 _The girl would be the best to target_ , he decided, _if anything were to happen to her, her parents would run away with their tails between their legs in moments._

He didn't have much longer to weigh the ups and downs of committing to his idea.

"Madame Giry," the Vicomte spoke up, "would it be too much to trouble you for a tour of the opera house? We heard that the new design was quite an architectural feat."

A strange request. It was blatantly obvious that the parents had been here in the past. His father had mentioned many times in his childhood the great fire that had decimated the innards of the Opera Populaire. Damien was well aware that his father, the feared Phantom of the Opera, the mysterious O.G, had been responsible. That said, it didn't bother him. His father had cared for him even though he was not his flesh and blood. He had raised him, taught him to protect himself, and protected him when Damien was unable to do so. The man had saved him.

Setting the thoughts aside, he once again looked down at the girl. Her hands were folded respectfully behind her back, which was ramrod straight but relaxed. She had the posture of a singer, as did her mother. Briefly he wondered what her singing voice was like. He shook his head and focused on Madame Meg.

"Oh, um, no, it would be no trouble at all. I'll have Marie lead the girls for now," she said, nodding at the red-blonde dancer who suddenly took on the face of a hunted animal. Damien grinned. He knew her fear stemmed from the notes that had been sent to the managers regarding her when she arrived. Too often she had attempted to take charge from Madame Meg, displeasing his father and meriting the correction. A little threatening, both written and verbal, had been enough to do the trick. Now she was scared to take the lead even for an hour.

He saw her swallow down the fear when Madame Meg would not relent and she was all but forced to comply.

The convoy remained until she took up a position in front of the rest of the ballet troupe and gracefully raised her arms into the opening stance. The others followed suit and the chorus also began their warm ups whilst the orchestra began to the play the notes for the first major aria of the first act.

He watched Madame Meg grab the Vicomtesse' hand and pull her backstage. His interest was piqued to say the least, so he quickly followed after the group. Still, the instinct to remain hidden kept him from directly striding down the catwalks backstage. Rather, he used the inconspicuous hidden passageways in the walls to stalk the oblivious group. He used Madame Meg's voice as a guide until he had skirted around the more populated areas and had entered the dormitories.

From there, the passageways and catwalks gave way to simple rafter beams barely above the warm light cast from the torches and candles.

"...And here of course are the dormitories. They didn't burn down completely in the fire, so several of the rooms are almost entirely as they were before. That includes the ballet mistress's room, a few of the smaller dorm rooms to the back, and...the Prima Donna's dressing room," Madame Meg made a decided pause as she spoke, eying the woman.

Damien had been in the process of climbing out onto the beams, but he too paused for fear of being heard. The man drew closer to the older woman, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. The girl glanced at them before crossing her arms over her chest as though she was cold.

"Is the room used?" the Vicomtesse asked in a quiet voice. Madame Meg shook her head.

"Not anymore. Madame Dupont requested a newer room closer to the stage. It is more effective for when she needs to quickly change her costume," she told her. The group seemed about to move on, and started back out of the dormitories.

The girl was the last to leave, seeming almost hesitant to do so. Ready to leave regardless of her, he stepped down from the banister to return to the passage.

But.

The wooden rail creaked.

He heard the girl turn on her heel. For several moments, he just stood there, waiting for her to go. But there were no footsteps indicating such.

And then, he heard them. The only problem was that they moved further into the room rather than out of it.

 _It seems I was correct. She_ is _curious_ , he thought, his mouth set into a grim line. Stretching his neck out, he could see her walking down the hall, peeking in rooms through open doors. His eye twitched voluntarily.

"Hello?" she called. When she did not receive an answer, she sighed and visibly slumped. Her eyes wandered around the hall, looking everywhere but up at the shadowy rafters. "I could have sworn I heard something," she said to no one but herself.

For a moment, Damien thought she might be sensible and turn back to find her parents. But no. Instead she crept further into the well-lit labyrinth of the dormitories. After she turned the first corner, Damien knew she was going to get lost. His more curious nature begged that he follow to see just how lost she got.

Not to mention that if she got _too_ lost, she actually stood a chance of finding his home.

So, with one final glance back to see no one of value to the girl below, he edged his way down the rafter in pursuit.

~oOo~

It took Charlotte a bit longer, but after an hour of wandering the maze-like halls of the dorms, she had to admit that she was thoroughly and hopelessly lost.

 _Just a bit further and I'll turn back_ , she thought for the fifth time. She bit back the feeling of annoyance at her realization that she had been making and breaking promises to herself for the last fifty minutes. She should have turned back after the first crossroad.

But she had heard something. She wouldn't deny her ears a thorough investigation, so she had entered the recesses of the dorms, ignoring her better judgement.

"Yet again…" She mumbled pointedly. This was hardly the first time, but with her protected upbringing, all other declines in good judgement on her part had been innocent. This, on the other hand, could be difficult to get out of if she didn't find someone to help her and soon.

She was well aware of her parent's apprehension in coming here. She was also well aware that she was perhaps the single reason they had returned at all. Her greatest dream had been to see the Opera Populaire, the place where her mother had found her voice, as well as her husband. It meant a great deal to her, and after much pleading with her parents, they finally planned a visit.

And now she was lost.

"They'll not let me set foot in here again," she sighed. Casting her eyes to the floor, she brought herself to a stop. Her brows furrowing in discouragement, she sighed again before looking up to take stock of her surroundings. To her direct left was a pair of tall ivory doors with golden handles, one of which possessing a lock.

There was a bronze key with a red and gold velvet tassel attached hanging from said lock.

She stared at it for a long moment.

 _The Prima Donna's dressing room._

"Mama's dressing room," she muttered. She grasped the key and gave it a turn to see if the door was already unlocked. It was. Sucking in a breath and hoping for nothing but a dark, empty room, she wrapped her hand around the cool golden knob, tarnished from time, and twisted it.

With a flinch-worthy creak, the door came open and she peered into the blackness beyond the small field of light cast from the lamps of the hallway. Hesitating for only a moment, she reached over to the wall and pulled one off. Taking a breath for courage, she swallowed and moved through the door.

The first thing she noticed was the floor to ceiling mirror that stood adjacent to the door. The gilded edge of the piece was dulled from the candlelight from 21 years of dust and cobwebs. The next thing she saw were the candle sconces that still held moderately tall waxy columns. Along with them were a myriad standalone candles on the table beside the vanity.

The first thing she did was light the candles in her immediate range of sight with the tiny flame from her lamp. She leant down to ignite the wicks of some of the smaller candles and looked around. Finding that she could see quite well now, she set down the original lamp and glided further into the room.

Every single surface was coated in dust, and occasionally cobwebs. She was no longer surprised that no one had wanted this room afterward. "Still," she thought aloud, "if someone had bothered to come in here and clean up, dust at the very least, then it wouldn't have fallen into such a state of neglect."

Nothing could have prepared her for the voice that spoke up.

~oOo~

Damien squatted on the rafter he had been cautiously moving down when she stopped at long last. He had to admit he was torn about her decision to come to a halt. It meant that he no longer had to follow her deeper into the maze of halls, but on the flipside, it also meant that he would once again have to navigate the rafters left unsafe from the fire.

However, before turning, it seemed she had paused to catch her breath. Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, he leaned against a beam that held the rafter he stood on suspended from the ceiling. He closed his eyes and inhaled silently.

Then she murmured something, almost indecipherable, but he heard it with his keen ears.

"They'll not let me set foot in here again."

She straightened up, and he watched as she tilted her head back, eyes closed, and stretched her back. She slumped and sighed before taking a look around at the hallway. Damien found himself returning to a familiar train of thought, namely, how people rarely seem to look up. However, observing her, it didn't take long for him to notice that something had hit her. She stood as still as a rock, staring at the door beside her. His visible forehead creased in interest. That was the Prima Donna's dressing room. Or, at least, it had been. 21 years ago it had been.

He wasn't worried about her having heard of him. He hadn't made a sound in his pursuit; not even a rail had creaked. He watched as her hand lifted from her side, almost hesitantly, and hovered over the burnt golden handle.

His mind raced to find a reason for her not to go in there. He couldn't think of any reason why she shouldn't. True, his father had seemed attached to the room in his younger years, but he had sealed the secret entrance when Damien was ten after an interesting incident in which someone had managed to open it. Thankfully they had run off to find the managers, thus giving his father time to seal it shut with careful application of brick mortar.

So he waited and watched as she quickly opened the door and crossed to the other side of the hall to fetch a lamp. He watched as she disappeared into the darkness. Then her silhouette gradually took form as she apparently took to lighting many of the hundreds of candles inside the room.

She didn't come out.

Bored beyond belief, Damien rolled his head and groaned inwardly. _Just go. You've got better things to do than wait for her all day. Besides, father will want to know about the new patron._

Still, his mind traveled back to his original plan. That was right. Something was meant to happen to her as a warning for said patrons. A devious grin split across his face. Nothing too terrible. Just something enough to scare them off. Killing her would do the trick. But his father had expressly told him not to do something so drastic unless it was vital to their safety or lives.

 _I'll hang her over the stage,_ he decided, _by her feet. She can't possibly weigh much._

His grin didn't falter, but now he had to find a way to lure her into a trap. Her ears seemed as keen as his. His grin grew as he launched his plan, as well as into the air.

~oOo~

 _THUNK!_

Charlotte gasped and looked up from the dusty jewelry box sitting on the vanity. What was that sound? She swallowed, fear rising in her stomach. She let the lid fall forward and shut the case. She redid the lock and then reached for her lamp. However, as she did, a draft kicked up in the room out of nowhere and she herself in almost complete darkness.

Gasping again as her heart began to pound in her chest, she turned to look out the door to see the same thing in the hallway. The only light came from the small flame protected by the glass surrounding the lamp. Briefly she wondered why the Opera had not invested in the use of electric lights when they had rebuilt. She would suggest the installation to her father.

Right now, though, it seemed she had bigger problems. She stood from the vanity chair and alternated between watching where she placed her feet as well as where she was walking. Once the door frame was visible, she found the fresher air of the hallway to be preferable over the now smoke-ridden air of the dressing room. If the darkness hadn't driven her out, then the fumes likely would have.

However, now she had a problem. She had no idea which was the proper direction to get out of the halls, having been turned around by the darkness.

"Oh, how am I to get out of here?" she asked no one. Her candle barely lit halfway up her arm, much less two feet in front of her.

"You could always walk," a voice growled from nowhere. For the third time, she gasped and began to look around wildly. The voice had not sounded friendly. In fact, it was deep and hard and threatening.

 _So I did hear something_ , a part of her brain mused as she tried to find the source of the voice. However, with nothing but a sentence lost to the silence to work off of, she was having some difficulty with that. She stopped, hearing nothing besides the her pulse thundering in her ears, and took deep breaths. It was for naught.

A deep chuckle pierced through the veil of silence. She whirled around, bringing the lamp with her. The sound was nearer than before. Her senses screamed at her that there was danger, but she stood her ground. Mostly because she had no desire to become lost in a maze. Still, her legs yearned to run, almost carrying her off with them against her will several times.

She wheeled around when the sound of footsteps reached her ears and reverberated around the hallway. They sounded even closer than the disturbing laugh and they more greatly influenced the urge to run. Her mind told her it would be useless. This creature of shadow was in its element. It would find her, whatever it was. Her voice, previously caught in her throat, dislodged itself and she found she could speak again.

"Where are you?" she called, noting the fear and desperation in her voice. The footsteps shuffled to a halt and she distinctly heard another chuckle fill the vacated silence. She whirled in the other direction to find the same blackness. Either this omnipresent "voice" was being thrown and or projected, or its owner could move very quickly and very quietly.

Her money was placed on the latter.

"Who are you? And what do you want with me?" she called again, making sure to strengthen her voice, as she had been taught to do while singing, and add a note of defiance. Trying to keep up her facade of courage, she lifted her chin, jutting it out for emphasis on her pride. Admittedly, she hadn't been expecting to get an answer, so when she did it scared her stiff.

"Well, the proper question there would more than likely be _what_ am I. To the world and everyone in it, I have no name, no identity. Identity does not matter. Not when you're an apparition," the voice stated, taking on a tone more befitting a philosophical discussion rather than a questioning.

Charlotte had to admit, the voice was enrapturing. It had taken on a smoother tone than the way it had growled at her earlier. This time it remained deep, but it was rich, cultured, and held a steady good-natured tone to its overall timbre. While she didn't melt like many of the heroines in the books she had read, she did feel as though she could listen to it for hours.

But it hadn't answered her second question.

Just as she opened her mouth to sputter out a quick defense, the voice began again. "As to my intentions here, let's simply state that they are somewhat more honorable than that of a stagehand's who might discover you here," it said.

She felt her heartbeat slow as she grew a bit more relieved. A part of her had been afraid of what would happen if she ran into the one of the hands in the dark. Yet another reason why her parents had warned her repeatedly about the dangers of getting lost. Now there was this character-this "apparition"-who claimed to have somewhat more honorable intentions.

She voiced her thoughts without thinking about it. "What do you mean by 'somewhat'?" she inquired, suspicious. A part of her growing hope cracked when there was no mischievous chuckle. There were no footsteps. The voice was silent.

"Do you intend to help me?" she called, this time trying to sound somewhat penitent toward her unseen companion. Silence.

~oOo~

Damien's brow creased again.

This wasn't a part of his plan. He had _intended_ for her to run. However, it seemed that she, while as curious as the rest, was not faint of heart.

He hadn't meant to talk to her. But he hadn't been able to resist. A part of him worried that his father would be upset with him for talking to a girl. Still, he had never done so before, and his father had never expressly forbid talking to young women. So he had taken a chance.

He realized, standing just beyond the small circle of light surrounding her, that a part of him deep down had been _eager_ to speak to her. He wasn't sure what to make of that.

Then he had had to answer her when she asked him a question. He had had to answer in his philosophical manner, the one his father alone appreciated.

Then she had dared to question his intentions. He had, admittedly, been taken aback by just how low she thought of him, a stranger, who hadn't yet had much chance to make an impression. Though he didn't doubt that she would figure out he was the one responsible for absence of light.

He smiled again. She was clever.

But then she had to keep asking questions.

Would he help her?

She was waiting for an answer. He knew she was staring right at him in the darkness. Staring straight into him and yet through him all the same.

He didn't like the way she was unknowingly weaseling herself out of his designs.

 _Hang the plan,_ his mind whispered, _just be a bloody decent person for once in your life_.

~oOo~

"Well?"

Charlotte was staring into the darkness, straining her eyes to see what lay inside the shadows. She locked her jaw, beginning to wonder if she had just been imagining the events of the last five or so minutes.

She could sense that there was, or had been, someone there with her.

But her last three inquiries into the black beyond her circle of candlelight had gone unanswered. She was beginning to wonder if she was alone.

She couldn't help but jump when the deep sound of the voice pierced the silence again.

"Yes. You are lost are you not?" It asked, the growl slowly edging its way in.

"Yes, yes I am lost. The darkness does not help much. Do you know the way back?" She replied, hoping that it would answer more quickly this time.

It did. "Mademoiselle, I happen to know the backstage of this opera house, as well as the rest of it, like the back of my hand."

Charlotte, for the first time since leaving the dressing room, smiled into the shadows. "And I can trust you'll get me back safely with no harm done?" She asked, needling for his word of promise.

A sigh. "Yes mademoiselle, you have my word that your honor will not be infringed upon while you are in my care."

Charlotte felt relief wash over her and she smiled openly at the point of origin of the voice. "Well then, let's go. My parents are likely worried sick," she said, starting toward him. She heard the sound of backtracking footsteps as a flash of black whipped through the light. For a millisecond a figure was visible in the meager light. Then it disappeared. "Are you still there?" She queried, fearful of being alone again.

"Yes I am here," the voice started, "but you won't be coming near me with that."

Charlotte was confused for a moment, wondering what he was on about. Then her eyes fell on her lightsource.

"The candle?" She asked, surprise and hesitant to let it go, "but don't we need it?"

"I certainly do not. I can find my way perfectly fine in the dark. Better actually. The light distracts," the voice stated.

"I'd feel better if I had it with me," she tried to reason with him. But the figure behind the voice was having none of it.

"Well, unless you want to try your luck at getting out of this labyrinth _with_ a lamp and _no_ help, then be my guest," it replied, stubbornly. Feeling annoyed but not wanting to test her luck, she questioned him again.

"Why? Are you afraid of the light?" Her tone was challenging.

"I told you. I am an apparition. A shadow. Shadows flee from the light. I _will_ vacate your presence if the light accompanies you," the last part being said with some venom.

Charlotte frowned. "Fine," she acquiesced, crouching down to set it on the floor.

"Turn it off," the voice commanded. She rolled her eyes skyward before doing what he said without argument.

A sudden wash of fear passed over her as she found herself immersed in the dark. Now whatever creature she had made a deal with had the complete advantage. She would see if it kept its word. Straightening up, she smoothed her skirts and bunched up a small amount of the soft fabric in both her hands, an old habit she'd had since her childhood.

Charlotte searched through the black, attempting to discern the figure of the "apparition."

"Give me your hand," the voice commanded, softer now, more gentille. Hesitantly, she raised her hand and held it out in front of her, palm open.

Though she could hardly see anything, she could see the outline of her hand, and she could hear the sounds of footsteps nearing her. Their approach was hardly masked. Perhaps her new companion was attempting to be more courteous to her by alerting her to his presence.

She listened until the footsteps were directly across from her, barely more than a foot away. She didn't dare look from her outstretched hand as her eyes adjusted more sharply to the darkness. It was still empty.

Then a dark shape hovered over it for a moment before engulfing it. She gasped at the feeling of a cold leather gloved hand in her own. It wrapped around her hand, causing a shiver to rattle up her arm and down her spine.

She could feel the overwhelming presence of another human being in front of her. The heat radiated from his core in a way strangely not felt by his fingertips. A he? It had to be a he. Her eyes drifted from her hand to the silhouette of the figure in front of her. Tall. He was tall. A good foot over her. And he had broad shoulders.

A menacing figure to be sure.

Coming to his face, she could see nothing. It was completely concealed in heavier shadow. She frowned, but then realized it was hopeless in the first place. Her eyes were not attuned to the dark, as his most likely were.

"Let us go. As you said, they will likely be looking for you."

Then he began to lead her down the hall, pulling her lightly, gently. The gesture belied any indications given by the size and obvious strength of his hands. Those were the last words said for a long time. Well, Long by her standards. It was by no means a long walk.

She could hear the hustle and bustle of the stagehands and music from the orchestra within a few minutes, leading her to believe that there was an alternate route back to the main stage area.

Then there was only a small space of shadow left before the dark backstage gave way to well-lit stage. On their short journey, they had somehow traded places until she was in front of him, and he remained behind in the shadows. She was all but alone.

She didn't turn immediately back to him. Instead, she watched the dancers as they moved across the stage, watched Madame Dupont glide gracefully into the spotlight and begin a less graceful aria of the opera being performed. She could see her parents across the stage, sitting in the "stage left" area. Her mother was sitting almost rigidly on a crate, while her father had his arm around her shoulders, comforting her. Aunt Meg was pacing just behind them, chewing her nail in thought.

Her thoughts were cut short when his hand began to slip from hers. She noticed.

"Wait!" She whispered, whirling around to face his disappearing form. "Who are you?"

She felt him step forward just slightly before saying quietly, "I already told you. I'm a shadow." Charlotte leveled a glare at him that told him that wasn't a good enough answer. She heard him step back once, no longer able to see even the outline of him further than his arm.

"You can tell me. I promise not to tell anyone," she said, trying to reinforce her grip on his hand and hoping he would leave.

"The Phantom of the Opera. That's the only name that matters. Don't te-"

He was cut off by the sound of footsteps charging across the stage.

"Charlotte!"

She whipped around at the sound of her name being called by her mother. Her mother and her father and Aunt Meg. All three were crossing the stage at a run to where she stood. _With the Phantom of the Opera himself._

She turned her head to look back into the shadows, but he was gone. Her gaze shot to her hand. It was empty, devoid of the glove that had grown warm in her grasp.

Something slammed into her and she was suddenly engulfed in a four way hug between herself, her parents, and her Aunt. Though she was dazed and her heart raced from the revelation of whom she had just spent time walking with, _held hands with_ , and had been _rescued by_ , she couldn't help but smile in relief at the warm embrace.

"Charlotte we thought something horrible had happened to you!" he mother cried into her shoulder. Her father was stroking her hair, and Meg looked like she might cry with relief.

"Oh where did you get off to?" she choked out, obviously having been as upset as her parents by her disappearance. Charlotte, just happy to be returned to them, gave an answer.

"I got lost in the dormitories. I heard a noise and went looking for it. I was lost within minutes," she informed them, hoping that her family would be satisfied with that meager explanation. But it was not to be.

"How did you get out, then?" her father asked, pulling back away from her to see her face.

"Well, I must have been lost for quite some time when I came upon the Prima Donna's dressing room and the lights went out. It was then I found my savior in the darkened hallways," she said, noticing her parent's smiles were faltering. There was something going on here that she wasn't aware of. Did they have a history with the Phantom of the Opera? One thing was for sure, her gut was screaming at her not to tell them the true nature of her rescuer.

"It was a stagehand with a lamp. He had heard me and got me out. A kind young man, he didn't compromise my honor in anyway, father," she told them, trying to make the lie smooth. They looked at each other for a moment, their faces pale, and her mother's lips a thin line on her face. There was a long stretch of silence between the family.

"Well, you're safe now. Just promise that you won't do something so foolish again," her father said, giving her a concerned frown. Relief once again washed over Charlotte; she gave a weak smile in return and nodded.

The rehearsal had stopped around them, and the cast milled about the stage as they made their way to the entrance they had come in through. Once they were on the opposite side if the stage, they stopped to say goodbye to Aunt Meg.

"Thank you for having us in Meg. We really enjoyed the...less stressful parts of our tour," her mother said, giving Meg a hug. Charlotte did the same.

"I'm so sorry Meg. I didn't mean to cause a disturbance. It won't happen again," she said in earnest, not too keen on getting stuck in the dormitories again.

The adults spoke for a few moments, and Charlotte couldn't prevent her mind from wandering off. Her gaze too, wandered off into the dark auditorium. It was empty as far as she could see.

Then a light caught her eye from above.

Out of curiosity, she tilted her head up somewhat to see the chandelier hanging high above the seats. The light had reflected off of some of the crystals, shaking from something's movement. She narrowed her eyes and looked harder at the beautiful decoration. A shadow swung itself around the support chain that held it to the ceiling before perching on the edge of one of the tiers. She knew instantly that it was the shadow.

 _The Phantom of the Opera Populaire_ , she thought, smiling to herself. She lifted her hand a little to wave at the figure discreetly.

"Charlotte? Come on sweetheart, we need to be home before dark," her father called to her. She nodded and glanced quickly out to the chandelier.

He was already gone.

 **A/N: Alright, like I said, this one is HUGE. The next one will most likely be shorter, or about the same. I'm not sure. I have to check my story board. I also might not update until next Wednesday as I won't have my computer. Hope you guys liked this!**

 **Please remember:** ** _Coffee keeps me awake to write, but reviews keep me motivated! :)_**


	5. Une Famille qui Vous Aime

**A/N: I. Am. So. Sorry. I realized I haven't updated this in forever just today as I haven't really worked on it at all in the last couple months. It got away from me and I wasn't really motivated to do it. Star Wars came out and I wanted to do a fic for that (which I also need to work on) and then school started up again and so did all the stress that comes with that. Anyhoo, here's the next chapter that ya'll waited a month and a half for.**

 **Chapter 5 - Une Famille qui Vous Aime**

( _Translation: A Family that Loves You_ )

"Father!" Damien shouted as he docked the boat they traditionally used to reach the outer catacombs at the shoreline of their abode. He jumped out of the gondola and propped the single time-worn oar against a post and tying to boat to the same post. It had become muscle memory over the years to tie it up. Especially after one too many incidents involving the boat drifting away down the canal-like lake and his father having to chase it down.

He was anxious to tell his father the news of the world above. The new patrons and their unwitting trickster of a daughter. Though he hadn't been able to expel her from his mind, his anger spiked when he thought of her like that. She had fouled his plan up in more ways than one. First of all, he hadn't even been able to carry it out, man of his word that he had been taught to be. And second, she now had the impression that the Opera Ghost was generally made of fluff with a hard exterior. His mouth formed into a grim line of determination. If she didn't stop thinking that, he'd have to set her straight. Possibly in the worst of ways.

"Father, I have news!" He called again into the lair, his voice reverberating off the stone walls and gothic-style furniture of the space. "Father?" He looked back and forth in the space, the older man nowhere to be found.

 _Blast! Where could he be? I wasn't even gone for two hours,_ he thought, putting his hands on his thin hips and turning about the room. Obviously, he would have to make a deeper search. He strode off into the recesses of the house, looking first in the kitchen and dining room, then moving to the cellar, and lastly his father's room.

Understanding his father's preference for privacy, he rapped on the doorframe before entering. A quiet "come in" was heard and Damien grasped the brass doorknob and turned it to open the way in. His father was sitting on the bed, mask on the red sheets next to him, and a book in his hands.

"I haven't so much as looked at this since I was your age," he said, his voice reaching Damien. The younger man marveled at how strong and young it sounded despite his age. He had been in his mid forties when he had found Damien as a child. And now, he was in his late fifties. Fifty-eight to be exact. He hadn't been shy about his age, not with Damien.

Likewise despite his age, as much as it opposed his voice, he was feeling the years wear on him. That he would never admit to his son, though Damien knew it. The man who had raised him since he was little more than a baby was slowing down. He wasn't old, no. It had nothing to do with a lack of fitness either. His father had spent decades climbing up and down stairs and fighting and running and riding. No, it had nothing to do with fitness or age.

Simply, it was his choice of home that had gotten to him. Their underground abode was dank, and without natural light, algae had infested the area, murdering one's lungs over time. Though after he had found him, his father had made sure to get Damien fresh air at least once a day, the younger man knew his father too well. Prior to finding him, he was certain that the older man had rarely, if ever, left the confines of the Opera House.

Dropping the thought, Damien answer his father. "What is it?" He inquired, his voice soft as he turned his oceanic eyes on the dusty but untouched pieces of leather bound parchment. His father smiled and Damien flickered his eyes to look at his face. A face that so closely resembled his own in its way.

His father's face was more rounded, looking slightly more squarish than Damiens. As time had passed and Damien had grown more into a man, his face had grown longer. It wasn't much thinner, not to the point of being gaunt, but he now had a jawline. According to Madame Meg, she would have found him handsome if she were 20 years younger than she was. It had taken Damien time to consider that. He had needed to ask his father what she had meant.

His father had laughed and told him that the older Madame Giry had said something similar to him in his younger years. Simply put, if their faces had not been scarred and fate had been a bit kinder, their countenances would have been desirable in society.

It was thoughts like these that had kept Damien locked away in his room for a week.

His father knew him all too well. A laugh from the other man brought him out of his split-second musings. A calloused hand landed gently in his dark hair and ruffled the already untamable black and brown strands.

"It matters not. It's simply an old memory from a time of pain. I want you to have it when you're old enough," his father said, dropping his hand back to the book and running it over the dark scrawl on a yellowed page. Damien skimmed over the page with interest, but he couldn't make out most of it.

"Besides, I have news for you," his father said in his 'I have a surprise for you' voice. Damien snapped his head up, his attention instantly diverted to his father. His blue eyes sparkled in excitement as he watched the older man's sea-green eyes light up with his own anticipation. "We're going out to the country for a week. The fresh air will likely do us both some good. I contacted Madame Giry, she says that the horses are well if you wish to better your riding skills."

Damien all but leapt off the bed in excitement. They hadn't been out to the country in years. Not since Damien was still small. He wondered why they would be going now. There had to be something more.

"Father, I have a question," he started. The older man looked up at him to show he had his attention. "We haven't been out to the country in years. Not since Madame Giry retired. Why are we going now?"

His father grinned and he knew that he had been right in his presumption that there was something more to this than just a holiday. Judging by his father's expression, though, it wasn't something bad.

"I recently heard from your godmother that there was a small estate available for purchase not far from her home. Since our salary has more than added up to the amount the owners wanted for it, I sent the money to Antoinette and had her purchase it in my name. I thought perhaps it might be a nice winter home. For when the opera is closed for the season and there's no one there to bother," he explained.

Damien felt himself, despite all his eighteen years, vibrating with excitement. Anyone from the outside who did not understand how the two emotional faces of both father and son could alternate so quickly would have marveled at how two thoroughly dangerous men, one of them a murderer, were as gentle kittens in each other's company.

Indeed, theirs was a strange family. Nevertheless, there was a deep seated love between the two. A trust that had weathered many a storm and had only grown in strength to weather many more. Damien didn't have many people in his life, but those he did he could always trust. He had been broken and hurt far too early in his life. If not for his father, he would have grown up to become a cynical and hateful creature.

But, he had been shown love. Shown kindness. Shown trust. It had taken time and each of those feelings had been tentative and shy at first, but his saving grace had been his father's faith and patience.

Not once had his father shown great anger with him, and he had always been stern yet kind when Damien had been in need of discipline. It had taken surprisingly several years to find out why. But once he saw, Damien knew.

Erik Destler understood his pain.

He cared enough to do something that would have seemed uncharacteristic of the terrifying and indomitable figure he posed. He had taken Damien into his care, made sure he was safe, taught him to protect himself.

Damien supposed this was the cause of his unflinching loyalty to the older man. He owed him his life in more ways that one.

And now, the man had committed yet another act of kindness for the boy he had come to call his son. He could barely contain his excitement at the thought of visiting the outside world in a safer environment than the streets of Paris.

"When are we leaving?" He inquired, opening and closing his fists in unspent excitement.

"Well, I just found out today that the previous owners have packed up and left, so I thought this afternoon would be quite nice," he said, raising his hand to rub his chin. "Of course, if there are matters upstairs to attend to, we could stay here for a while."

"No!" Damien all but shouted, completely forgetting about his news. He wanted to leave as soon as possible. "We can go today!" His father laughed.

"You still have much growing to do, my son," he said, ruffling the boy's hair yet again.

Damien grinned. "Well, if the man raising me didn't raise me with an enthusiastic nature, then where would we be? I may have grown up too fast then."

His father's smile never faltered. "Hurry and pack your things. I'll have a wagon commissioned by the time you're finished," he told him, giving Damien's head a gentle push in the direction of the door.

The younger man laughed and did as his father said, shaking his head to shift the soft short hair. He darted out of the room and moved one over, his own quarters.

He grabbed a suitcase his father had gotten him for their last trip out of the opera house and dropped it on the bed in the center of the room. He dodged the footboard, a large carved wooden dragon. His father had told him once that it had once been a swan, but he had reshaped it for Damien.

The teen darted from place to place in the room, his armoire, his dresser, his bathroom gathering his things and dumping them in his bag.

After about twenty minutes, he had everything together and was double-checking his things. He had shirts and pants enough for a weeks, he had his toilet trees and other small things. He frowned. His boots were missing.

He looked around, spotting the place he normally kept his shoes by the door. His dress shoes were present as well as the house shoes he never wore. That left one place he could have left them. He looked down at his feet. A flustered smile crossed his lips.

He was wearing them.

There was something else he was forgetting. He wasn't sure what though.

His train of thought was derailed when his door opened and his father appeared. "The cart is waiting upstairs. I see you're set to leave," he said, grinning somewhat. Forgetting again, Damien smiled back and resolved not to let it bother him. It would come to him later.

~oOo~

Charlotte squinted in the light as she followed her parents out of the entrance to the opera house and moved down the steps to their carriage. The driver opened the door and her father helped her mother in and then her before getting in himself. Shutting the door, the driver climbed into the seat at the front of the carriage and opened the window into the cabin.

"Anywhere else in mind, sir? Or shall I return to the estate?" He asked. Her father looked at them both and seemed to ask her mother mentally if she would like to stay before he answered the driver.

"I don't think so Henri. Let's make the trip home," he replied.

"Yes sir," the other man said before sliding the tiny window shut again and cracking the reins, telling the horses to get moving.

Having a window seat, Charlotte stared out the thin pane of glass at the city beyond. They had visited Paris perhaps twice as a family in her entire life. This was the more memorable visit. Her heart was still thundering in her chest as she quietly took deep breaths so as not to draw attention to herself. Propping her elbow up on the arm of the leather seat, she cupped her chin in her hand and continued watching the outside world pass by, now hardly more than a blur of color and figures as Henri sent the horses into a fast trot. Once outside of the city limits, he would ask for a canter. And then as they moved deeper into the country, nearer their house, where things were surprisingly well kept, he would have them gallop for a ways before slowing again…

 _The phantom of the opera_ …

Charlotte closed her eyes and went over the experience for possibly the seventh time in five minutes. It wasn't hard, not much actually transpired in the time she had walked with _him_. She could still feel the cool leather on her hand.

Really, it had been haunting.

 _But not_ _that_ _kind of haunting_ , she thought. No, it wasn't the kind of haunting that she had heard about in the fairy tales that her mother and maids had told her as a child. This was more a haunting interest. Her curiosity was piqued to the highest extent; more than it had been when she had first come across her mother's old dressing room.

She wanted to run into him again. This time, though, she wanted it to be on her own terms. She wanted to be prepared. The only problem with that was she doubted this "ghost" would allow her to summon him. He wouldn't come when she called. Judging from their conversation, he was very standoffish and quiet. A haunt, indeed.

"... _Charlotte_?" a voice called, snapping her out of her reverie. She whipped her head around to look at who the voice originated from. Her father. "Charlotte, did you hear what your mother said?" Charlotte shook her head, embarrassed that she hadn't been paying attention.

"The managers asked me if I would like to come perform at the opera for the fifteen year anniversary of _Hannibal_. They also offered you a chance to shadow myself and Madame Dupont, as well as a chance for you to sing in the chorus," her mother stated, a small smile gracing her lips. She was obviously pleased at these events, as was Charlotte who nearly stood bolt upright from her seat.

"Mama!" she cried in excitement, bouncing up and down in her seat and rocking the carriage. She steadied herself when she heard the driver call out to the horses to calm them. "Really? The managers really said I could?" It was her dream to work in the opera as a singer if she could and a dancer if she had to. "That's amazing! That's wonderful!"

It had been her dream ever since her mother had started sharing stories of her days growing up in the Opera Populaire with her Aunt Meg and Godmother Madame Giry. Her wishes had only increased when her godmother had begun to tell her her own tales of her life as a ballet dancer and choreographer.

She could hardly contain her excitement, forcing herself to refocus on the city outside the window. Suddenly, she didn't want to leave. Being a young lady not yet of age to step out from her family's care meant that she had to stay with them, though, and it also meant she was made to put on a brave front and act like she didn't mind. But she did. She wanted ever so badly to leap out of the carriage and run as fast as she could for the opera house.

No. Much as she loved Paris and the Opera, she loved her parents even more. Besides, if the managers liked her work in Opera, then she might be asked to stay and her parents would have to bid farewell to her then. Well, at least for a little while. It would be a nice break; her parents would have some time to themselves and she would have a chance to spread her wings and become a part of society on her own.

She sighed contentedly as the carriage pulled up to a stop to allow crossing traffic to have their turn. A moment later, her view of the vendors and shops adjacent to her window was obstructed by a cart. She had an easy view of the contents of the wagon; suitcases and personal items mostly, as though someone were moving. Nothing about the cart seemed at all out of the ordinary.

The drivers on the other hand, were what roused her suspicions to such a degree as they were. They were both entirely cloaked in black, dark hats on their heads with the brims shadowing their downturned faces. Both were hunched over slightly, as though being battered by an unfelt autumn wind, their broad shoulders curling inward. They looked like they would be better fit for a hearse than a moving wagon, and she couldn't help but wonder based on their cargo.

Were they thieves? The possibility wasn't unreasonable. Still, on a closer inspection, they weren't acting like thieves. From what she knew - and had at one point seen first hand - thieves were jittery. There was always some part of their body that was in motion. A finger tapping on a surface, a knee jogging up and down, any number of things really. But these two were motionless as statues; entirely undisturbed by the commotion of the city.

Then one of them shifted, lifting the reins high and cracking them down to urge the horses pulling their wagon forward. Charlotte peered beyond the window's frame watching them until her world began to move again. She looked away for a moment before turning her gaze back to where they had been only to find them gone.

She cupped her chin in her hand and stared back out the window at the passing scenery, but her mind would not absorb it. She was too busy thinking on other things.

Such as, why, in retrospect, did those figures seem at least partially familiar?

It didn't make sense. She was certain she had never met anyone of that caliber before. But the more she thought on it, the more she couldn't believe that. She had forgotten so quickly the events of the last hour. Her meeting with _the_ phantom of the opera. _The_ dark figure.

Well, the broad shoulders were a match.

But why would he leave the Opera Populaire? If he were a ghost, wouldn't he confine himself to the massive structure to haunt? And, if he were a ghost, why would he need a horse and cart to carry his belongings?

Charlotte knew well without the answers to those questions that he was no spectre. She may have only seen him in shadow, but she knew he was tangible. She'd felt a hand beneath that glove. She'd felt him there in the way one feels a presence once it has been located and is known.

She shook the thoughts off as her mother called for her attention again.

It was going to be a long ride.

 **A/N: Sorry if it doesn't flow very well. I just got back to this today (2/29/16) after leaving it here for roughly a month, so I'm going to have to go back and fix things at some point. If you have any comments on things that need fixing, just PM or review to let me know and I'll get it done when I can. I'm going back to the document to start work on the next chapter, which should be shorter unfortunately unless my brain decides to pull another twist with this chapter like it did with the one before this one and make it longer. T_T Anyway, have a nice night all of you! Hope you'll hear from me again soon.**

 **~IMSP**


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